


Wall of Winter

by Restingheartface



Series: Island of the Strong Door [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Characters tagged in order of appearance/mentions, F/F, On Historicity - there were no firearms in this time period only arms on fire, Roman Britain, Roman Empire AU, Western Roman Empire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5885017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Restingheartface/pseuds/Restingheartface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a loss of self-control by the Dux Britanniarum leads to the massacre of allied Britons north of the Wall, a barbarian coalition is formed to incite a rebellion against Rome. In the ensuing war, Clerica Aquilia Morta (Clarke Griffin) and the 100th legion are transferred to Britannia to assist in the reclamation of the diocese, and establish peace with the Britons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Via Hiems

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of maintaining some semblance of historical accuracy, I have tried to adapt most characters' original names into forms that agree with the time period and their backgrounds in this story. I will give a list of the characters who appear, alongside their canon names and their roles in this fic. 
> 
> A number of characters and events in this fic are also based on actual historical figures and events. If you are interested in knowing where I am drawing from, feel free to ask in the comments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and character indexes can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8036164/chapters/18403756)

Clerica Aquilia Morta had thought the British autumn cold – its winter was colder. She loosened her sword as she rode, making sure it hadn’t stuck. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt true warmth. Since her promotion to _tribunus_ four years ago, she and the 100th legion had been directed to seemingly every last frozen shit of a border in the Gallic prefecture. Not for the first time on this particular campaign, she bit her tongue before she uttered a string of silent curses at Emperor Duranus for appointing her to the position. 

Turning in her saddle under the pretense of checking the rest of the legion’s progress, she cast a hasty glance over the aging emperor to ensure her intent had not gained the ear of some higher power. The man sat tall, the only indication that he might be anything other than the _centenarius_ his garb suggested. The unyielding nature of his office did not betray the exhaustion Clerica knew burdened his strong but brittle shoulders. 

To his right, his son Claustrus sagged in the saddle, his own sense of decorum long gone. Not wanting to share anything, let alone her demeanour with him, she straightened up conscientiously. As she turned to face forwards, she shot a furtive look to her own right, where the legion’s prefect, Bellamicus Pallidus rode astride a blue roan. The swarthy Gaul returned it with equal measure. Their respect for Claustrus was nominal, at best. 

It had taken Clerica some time to fall into step with ‘Bellamy’, as he let the soldiers call him. She had known what to expect when she entered the military – it had been a long time since the Roman army was made up of entirely Roman citizens – but the initial shock of being surrounded by barbarians took a little while to wear off. That a barbarian had been appointed as a commanding officer, however, and given charge of all of the legion’s infantry units… that had grated against Clerica’s respect for tradition. Bellamy, however Roman-sounding the name bestowed upon him was, held none of the propriety with which Clerica had been raised as the daughter of a Roman senator. He, like so many of the legion’s soldiers, was rough around the edges, where Clerica was smooth and refined. 

As it had turned out, however, the partnership was a good one. Whatever their differences of culture and upbringing, they had struck up a balance with the legion of respect and cordiality that Clerica decided was the only reason they had made it through three harsh winters in the _limes_ of Gallia, fighting everyone from the Alemanni to their own humors. Numerous comprehensive victories had forged the legion into a success story of the highest order.

 _And that’s why we’ve been summoned to this God-forsaken island to deal with Verus’ mess,_ she thought bitterly. _We’d better get a fucking triumph in Rome for this._

But in her heart, she knew that probably wasn’t to be. They might hold some celebration at Augusta Treverorum, but word of this probably wouldn’t even reach Constantinople. Nobody gave two shits about Britannia: it was cold, wet, dark, and far away. What she did know, however, was that if this campaign failed, her legion would be disbanded with dishonor, and that would cast a taint on her family, and the families of many others. Duranus might well lose his seat as emperor. 

_Not that that would be the worst thing in the world, if it removed any possibility of Claustrus stepping up to the plate._

With a sharp pang of remorse, she recalled the loss of Fontisius Honorius Maximus, the son of Duranus’ co-emperor, Thelonious. He had also been Clerica’s dear friend from childhood. As the _Dux Moguntiacensis_ , he had been the commander of the four legions stationed on the frontier in Upper Germania, of which the 100th legion was one. He had been killed at Solicinium the year before, victim of a lance to the neck from thirty feet. Clerica herself had severed the life of the spear’s owner, and Bellamy had callously seized the man’s head and presented it to Emperor Thelonious at Fontisius’ funeral. The gesture had done little to ease the pain of a father’s grieving heart. She wondered if Duranus would mourn the loss of Claustrus as ardently as Fontisius’ father had. As he still did. 

Somehow, she thought not.

_At the very least, Fontisius, you can be thankful you died before Verus disgraced the might of Rome. If you hadn’t, it would be you leading this campaign to the end of the world, not me._

The assault on Britannia had been swift and unexpected in its size and fervour; a great barbarian coalition, striking this far outpost of the Empire from all sides. The Picts and Britons had poured forth from the north, the Hibernians from the west, and the Saxons from the southeast. What had become clear to Clerica as she and her legion had slowly reclaimed the island was that a large portion of the blame rested with Albus Nicolus Verus, the _Dux Britanniarum_. Stationed at Eboracum and commanding seven legions of _limitanei_ along Hadrian’s Wall, it had been his responsibility to safeguard the north. And yet, where was he when the Wall had fallen? Where were his men?

The situation, as far as could be determined, was messy, to say the least. A sickness had run rampant through the troops in the summer, and Verus’ own wife and infant son had taken ill. Desperate, he had asked aid of a medicine man of the Selgovae, a British client kingdom north of the Wall that formed a buffer between Rome and the Picts. Despite the efforts of the medicine man, Verus’ young family had perished in the sickness, and mad with the grief of his loss, Verus had marched on the man’s village beyond the wall and crucified all its inhabitants.

The action had not gone over well with the Selgovae, who, while nominal allies of Rome, had previously been unrestful and known to rebel against the Empire. It had also been poorly received by Verus’ men, who had rejected both the fact that Verus had exacted vengeance, and the manner in which he had done so; crucifixion was an outlawed punishment in Rome, and for Verus to implement it on anyone, especially a people who held no faith in Christ, was a grievous error indeed. 

Unusually, the strike against the Selgovae had resulted in a bonding of the British kingdoms with the Picts and the Hibernians, all of whom were known to fight amongst themselves and with each other. How the fucking Saxons got involved, Clerica had no idea; if there was one thing the natives of Britannia all agreed upon, it was that the Saxons were not welcome on their shores, and Clerica couldn’t blame them. 

_Evidently, everyone decided there was someone they all hated more than each other,_ she thought. 

When the tide swept forth, Verus’ legions had either stood aside or turned from Rome and joined them. The lack of resistance in the north had given the barbarians’ main force purchase to move south and slaughter _comes_ Cupitus Pistorius’ frontier forces from behind at the Saxon Shore. All the while, the _Comes Britanniarum_ Marcus Marius and his field army were occupied with the Hibernians flooding the west. 

Even if Marius had realized what was going on, he wouldn’t have had the means to fight the Picts and the Britons as well. While in most of the Western dioceses the _comes’_ field army was far larger than the frontier guards, in Britannia the largest force was with the _dux_ at the northern frontier. Such was the danger of invasion that it was one of the most heavily defended borders in the Empire. 

If ever they found him, that shame would be laid at Verus’ feet. For seven legions to mutiny… that could only be answered for by those in command. Clerica did not envy Verus the honour. If they found him alive, Verus would, beyond doubt, be executed. The only way Duranus had been able to maintain reconquered territory was by offering pardons to the mutineers that they might hold the line behind them, and the ranks of the 100th legion had subsequently grown as the campaign continued, absorbing the mangled remains of the 48th, the 60th, and the 79th. But Rome would demand answer from somewhere. Verus, whatever his previously high repute, was currently the best option. 

The sound of hooves echoed towards her over the cobbled road, and a company of riders soon followed. At their head was her cavalry prefect, Octavia Pallida, a sibling of Bellamy’s, born of his Greek mother by a Sarmatian. Octavia had inherited the fierceness and beauty of her father’s people, as well as their ease with horses, and it was with great pleasure that Clerica had promoted the young Sarmatian to such an esteemed position. All too well did she note the tales of Sarmatian cavalry shredding legions in the east, and under Clerica, Octavia had demonstrated many times over the value of her equestrian expertise. 

“ _Tribunus_ , I have word from Marcus Marius,” she announced as she came within earshot. “The Hibernians have been subdued to the west, and he has earned an audience with the Britons, who he says are willing to discuss terms at Isurium Brigantum.”

“Of course they are,” Bellamy rolled his eyes. “They broke their treaty with Rome and now they are seeing our retribution. Fucking Britons, never know when to pipe the fuck down.”

Clerica nodded. “Octavia, did he say anything about Verus?”

She shook her head. “They are still looking for him. One of the officers in the 48th seems to know something, but she isn’t talking.”

 _Fucking Verus!_ she thought. _If only you held the loyalty of the rest of your legions so tightly, we wouldn’t be dealing with this at all…_

“Who is this officer?” she asked.

“Some Italian bitch from Ravenna, apparently. Corvina Regia. Officer of the engineer corps in the 48th.”

“Corvina Regia,” Clerica mused. 

Bellamy turned to her with a devilish grin on his face. “Old flame of yours, _Princeps_? I know how big a fan you are of ‘Italian bitches’…”

“No… not one of mine,” she murmured. “And don’t call me that,” she snapped. Bellamy smirked but let it go. “Stay the course, Pallidus, I need to speak with the Emperor.” 

Pulling her horse out of the column, she trotted down the line until she was level with Duranus, Octavia following. “ _Augustus_ , I have just received word from the _Comes Britanniarum_. It seems the Britons are prepared to come to terms.”

A shadow of relief passed over Duranus’ face. Perhaps this campaign had taken a greater toll on him than Clerica had originally thought. “Terms,” he repeated, smiling. “Yes, of course Marius would seek terms. I have never known a commander so unwilling to spill blood as he. Ever the diplomat!”

Claustrus was less impressed. “If the Britons wanted terms, they should have set them before they invaded the diocese,” he sneered, “not now, when we have beaten them back to their borders.”

“Doubtless they were given the impression those terms would fall on Verus’ deaf ears.” Duranus held up a hand to his son’s vindictiveness. “He will be dealt with… _accordingly_. But I, for one, am interested to hear what the Britons have to say – particularly this war leader of theirs. To unite all these barbarian tribes to a single purpose, however wicked, is no small feat. Even today, we praise Alexander for the same. Did Marius say anything about him?”

He looked at Clerica with an almost excited anticipation, and she turned to Octavia, giving her leave to address the emperor.

“Your pardon, _Augustus_ ,” Octavia replied, “but the barbarians are led by a woman.”

Claustrus exhibited a look of disdain, but his father laughed aloud. “Indeed!” he cried, apparently delighted. “So not an Alexander after all, but an _Alexandria_! Alexandria Britorexa!”

“I believe she is called ‘Rigan’,” Octavia clarified. “Rigantona, of the Selgovae.”

“Very well,” Duranus seemed pleased by this development. “If Marcus Marius thinks peace is a possibility with the she-wolf of the north, I will speak with her. And you, Morta, you will come with me?”

Clerica turned to him, surprised. “ _Augustus_?”

“If I am to make you the new _Dux Britanniarum_ , it seems prudent that you be a part of these negotiations, wouldn’t you agree?”

She wasn’t shocked by the revelation. Since Fontisius’ death, Clerica had been vested with increasing authority in Germania. While she had not been formally appointed his successor as _dux_ , it was deemed necessary that she take over his duties until the position was filled permanently. When the current situation arose in Britannia however, that process had been expedited by Duranus, who sent a replacement to Mogontiacum immediately in order to free Clerica and the 100th legion to travel with him to the island diocese. 

As the campaign continued, she had been given ever greater responsibilities, such that she was now functioning on the level of a _comes_ , at least two ranks above her official station. So no, she was not surprised that Duranus had considered her to take over Verus’ position. She was, however, disgusted at the notion of spending any longer on this fucking island than absolutely necessary, and being promoted to _dux_ would inexorably tie her to this land for God knew how long.

“Of course, _Augustus_ ,” she replied, inclining her head. 

Duranus’ smile was a little too shrewd for Clerica’s liking, while Claustrus was looking bloody murder at his father. Evidently, Clerica was not the only one here less than excited about this appointment. She quickly dismissed herself before she caused any offence with a lack of enthusiasm. 

As she and Octavia made their way back to the head of the column, the Sarmatian pulled in close. “We’ll want to keep an eye on that one,” she murmured.

“Who? Claustrus?”

Octavia nodded. 

“He’s not my biggest fan, no,” she agreed. “But once all this is over, he will return to Gallia with the Emperor. May God grant that I never mark his sickly face again in this life.”

Octavia’s look was serious. “You should trust in your God only when you live in his house, Clerica. In this land of winter, He owns no houses. And only demons will hear your prayers.”

Clerica smirked at the superstition. “Then I will leave it to the demons to do God’s work,” she replied, “and pray that God forgive me their help.”


	2. Salvatici

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ste yuj <3
> 
> Notes and character indexes can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8036164/chapters/18403894)

Marching through the night, they reached Isurium Brigantum before the moon reached its apex. In the dark, they had passed the hulking mass of Eboracum, the seat of the _Dux Britanniarum_ , its shape and size only roughly estimable through the thousands of tiny lights that occupied its walls and windows. As they drew up the road, Clerica deduced that Isurium Brigantum was a significantly smaller fortress, but no less impressive in its size relative to many of the many other villages she had seen on the island. Through the gloom, she could discern a great stone wall and a gate, through which the road on which she rode passed. The way was shut.

On the plain before the walls sat the _comitatensis_ of Marcus Marius, a force over 3,000 strong, or at least, that was what he had started with on this campaign. Judging by the number and size of the camps, Marius had recruited almost twice that number since. Most of those soldiers, if Clerica were generous enough to call them even that, were likely far more skilled with a plough than a _spathe_. Marius was an inspiring man however, and she had no doubt that he had somehow stirred these Britons – or Romans, or Gauls, or wherever they hailed from – to wholeheartedly support his interests. For all she knew, they believed these interests were shared. For all she knew, they were shared.

Thankfully, Marius had taken initiative to prepare camps to house Clerica’s ramshackle legions in advance of their arrival – a godsend after their exhausting trek through the cold night. As she took comfort in the knowledge that she would soon settle before a crackling fire in her own tent, she wondered absently whether Britannia even _had_ a summer. Did the sun ever truly warm this island, or did its inhabitants always find themselves fighting the urge to shiver? 

As they approached the camps, a small delegation with torches came forward to greet them, led by Marcus Marius himself. It had been many years since Clerica had seen him last, but even under age and weather, the kind face of a family friend was familiar. 

“Clerica Aquilia Morta!” he hailed with a broad smile. “I daresay you are twice as tall now as the gleeful girl I remember!” 

“And you, Marcus, I find twice as wide, and never more cheerful!” She returned the smile and dismounted, Marius pulling her into a tight hug and placing a kiss on her cheek. Behind her, she felt the Pallidas roll their eyes and silently drawl about the prissiness of Romans. “You will have to teach me how you keep such high spirits in this land of winter.”

“Indeed… I heard rumour that my old friend’s fabled daughter would be coming to us on a more permanent basis. It would seem congratulations are in order?” He motioned for the men in his company to begin leading the legions to their prepared camps. Octavia and Bellamy lingered behind, awaiting direct orders.

Clerica nodded and smiled again, a little more thinly. “It would seem so. Would that my promotion came under brighter circumstances…”

Marius’ brow furrowed grimly at that, but his eyes remained soft. Before he had the opportunity to respond, however, his attention was drawn by approaching cavalry. “Hail, _Augustus_!” he greeted. “And a belated welcome to Britannia!”

Clerica turned to find Duranus and Claustrus extricating themselves from the procession and making their way towards them. Under cover of darkness, the emperor had let his guise of strength slip; he now wilted in the saddle, a far cry from the poised figure from earlier in the day. Swaying dangerously, he seized his son’s forearm to steady himself. Nevertheless, he granted Marius a weary smile. 

“Marcus, my friend!” he murmured. “Never has your face been a more welcome one to this old man –” He was interrupted by a hacking cough in a fit that threatened to unbalance and throw him from his horse altogether. 

Claustrus picked up the reins. “As you can see, my father is exhausted and ill from our long ride.” He issued a glare at Clerica, clearly thinking the decision to ride through the night was an unnecessary one. “We would take your quarters that he might rest a while, Marius.”

Marius did not hesitate. “Of course, whatever I have is at _Augustus_ ’ disposal. I understand that the empress travels with you as well?”

Claustrus nodded sharply, a scowl on his face. His dislike for his stepmother was no great secret, and he made no move to make a secret of it. Empress Coithia was a member of a prominent Romano-British family and a descendent of one of the brothers of Constantine the Great, but neither her political value nor her pedigree made up for the other stains Claustrus saw on her. He did not see the astonishing beauty of the woman his own mother had fallen in love with, only the ugliness of her first marriage to the Gallic usurper Cingetorix and his own disgust with her heretical Arian faith. Worse even than that were the rumours that she also kept to the old gods, practiced sorcery, and was a _tribas_. 

Much to Claustrus’ dismay however, his father’s attachment to his second wife was quite complete. While it had been the young woman’s beauty that had initially attracted Duranus, her goodness and political savvy had solidified the marriage into one of great personal value to him. Her presence on the current campaign was a reflection of that value, particularly regarding mediation on the rebellious island of her birth. Mother to the emperor’s second son, Coithia was not a woman to be coddled and left to lounge in Augusta Treverorum, but a wife to be supported by, a diplomat to be advised by, and an empress to be ruled by. 

For her own part, Clerica had never been able to refuse that empress anything, be it service, respect, admiration, or even love. Indeed, for a period of her early military career, she had served the new _Augusta_ as head of her personal guard, and the professional devotion of that role had remained with her to a degree since her promotion to _tribunus_ , a promotion Coithia herself had secured. 

Her _personal_ devotion to the empress, however, was another matter entirely, and one that her changed position had not impacted to any great extent. Their liaison had quickly become a passionate one, yes, but over the course of her three-year term in the empress’s service, it had developed into one of deep and abiding friendship as well. While Clerica’s transfer away from the empress’s residence at Lugdunum had effectively ended the regularity of their physical relationship, the friendship between the two women remained forever strong. 

“Unlike the rest of our grand company,” Duranus rasped, recovering from his fit, “my beloved wife does not begrudge Britannia its winters… Though, she will perhaps be as glad as any to get in front of a fire – Marcus, would you do us both the honour?” He smiled weakly, and Marius nodded affirmation. 

“It would be my pleasure, _Augustus_ ,” he replied. “Shall I send for her..?”

There was a cry of shock, and Clerica turned to find Duranus toppling from his horse. She rushed forward immediately, and, with the help of a slave who had darted to his side, broke his heavy fall. They lowered him carefully to the ground, the slave taking the emperor’s helmed head in her lap. Several people tried to crowd around, and Marius, Bellamy, and Octavia did what they could to stave them off. Clerica could hear Claustrus calling frantically for a physician as she unbuckled the chinstrap securing Duranus’ helmet and easing it off his head.

“ _Augustus_ ,” she called. The emperor was awake, his eyes roaming agitatedly and without focus. “ _Augustus_ , can you hear me? _Duranus_!” 

At the sound of his name, the emperor’s gaze locked on her own, relief banishing the fearful distress that had been there before. 

“Clerica…” he breathed, faintly. She leaned in to hear his ragged words. “Clerica, I thought I… I was lost for a moment…”

“Not yet lost, _Augustus_. You see? You are right here with me.” Clasping his hand in her own, she smiled gently. “And I need you to stay with me, can you do that?”

A look of false indignation crossed the old man’s face. “I am not… accustomed to… to taking orders from anyone but my… anyone but my God and my wife…” The words rattled through his chest with some effort, but his eyes never left hers as he spoke. They did now, addressing the woman in whose lap he lay. “And you, slave girl… do you also have orders… for a dying old man..?”

For the first time, Clerica glanced up at the other face that hovered above the emperor, inches from her own. She wore an expression of concern, her tall brow furrowed and her mouth turned down in a small frown. 

“Yes,” the woman answered simply. “Don’t.”

That brought a frail laugh bubbling from the emperor’s core, one that belied the man’s weakened condition. “‘Don’t die’… Words to live by… if ever I heard any…” he gasped. “Very well… I will heed both of you… in your demands… but first I will rest…” Duranus was fading rapidly, his eyelids fluttering as he fought sleep. “Clerica… you will… you will retrieve… my… Coithia…” 

With that, he passed easily into sleep, his breathing weak but steady, the shadow of a smile still on his lips. Claustrus returned then with a small team of physicians and a makeshift stretcher. Kneeling down, he shouldered Clerica out of the way and clutched his father’s hands, searching him for sign of life. 

“He will be fine,” the slave said calmly, and Clerica, noting her accent, realized she was a Briton. “He needs only to rest and regain his strength.”

Claustrus looked up at the words and their speaker, as though he hadn’t recognized her presence until she had spoken. Furiously, he struck the woman in the face, the force of the blow knocking her to the mud in which she was kneeling. Seizing her wrist in a vice-like grip, he rounded on Clerica, dragging the woman from the ground. The physicians hurried forward to collect the emperor, who now lay flat in the muck, blissfully ignorant in his sleep of all that was happening around him.

“ _You_!” he roared. “You let a _slave_ – a _Briton_ – tend to the Emperor of Rome?! Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

He wrenched the woman forward, sending her crashing into Clerica, who stumbled at the impact and hugged the Briton to her chest in a bid to regain her balance. 

“We are at _war_ with these people, these _barbarians_! For all you know, she means to kill the emperor for that whore she calls ‘queen’!”

Hands like claws bit into Clerica’s shoulders, and the slave was suddenly pushing off from her with a kind of feral, retaliatory strength. Recognizing the desire, Clerica tightened her embrace of the woman, who was far more resilient than her thin frame suggested. Teeth dug angrily into her neck as the slave fought to free herself, and Clerica groaned as the skin threatened to break. 

“ _No_ ,” she hissed in the woman’s ear. Clerica felt violent breath panting against her neck and a threatening growl that vibrated in her own chest, but the Briton’s struggles against her relented. A moment later, Clerica felt a solitary hand creep up between them and press her own dagger to her throat. 

“You _will_ let me go,” the slave whispered back, a ghost at her ear. Clerica felt her body prepare, bizarrely, for that ear to be bitten off.

“You kill him, or me, and you will be tortured and killed yourself,” Clerica breathed. “And then Rome will raze this island to the ground, Alexandria Britorexa and her Coalition with it.”

The Briton stiffened in her arms and Clerica heard her breath catch at the back of her throat. In her experience, threats of personal and general genocide tended to carry significant weight. Not that either of these were threats: _if_ a British slave murdered the new _dux_ and the emperor’s son, Rome _would_ slaughter her people. Not a threat. A promise. 

Beyond her, Marius and Bellamy were trying to wrestle a howling Claustrus away from them. Wildly, the emperor’s son took a swipe at Bellamy, catching the Gaul in the nose. Patience now at an end, Clerica watched with not a little pride as her prefect struck Claustrus with a cynical blow that rendered him unconscious. Two of Marius’ men caught him before he hit the ground.

“Take him to the infirmary with the emperor,” Marius spat. “And have them fully guarded; Claustrus may be the emperor’s son, but I’ll be damned if I left him fuck up our truce with the Britons by killing those he comes across in our own camp… Go! Get him out of my sight!”

Clerica still clutched the Briton to her chest, not daring to let go, but also very much aware of her pulse hammering against the blade at her throat. Had she not been wearing her heavy fur cloak, her precarious position might have been noted by the crowd around her. As it was, she appeared only to be comforting a fearful, injured party. 

Marius began making his way towards them. 

“If you value your life, you will give me that knife,” Clerica whispered harshly. “ _Now_.” 

The Briton pulled away from her slowly, dropping the hand that gripped the knife as she did. Clerica caught at the woman’s wrist and delicately withdrew the blade, concealing it in the folds of her cloak. She never once broke with the Briton’s wary eyes. A moment later, Marius had closed the distance, a hand on Clerica’s shoulder as he turned to assess the condition of the slave who had just threatened to end her life. The ferocity had left her face, and in its place, Clerica could discern the makings of an angry bruise under her eye. It disappeared from view as she bowed her head in deference to the _Comes Britanniarum_. 

“Dana…” he murmured, taking a step forward and lifting her chin. She shrugged away from the touch with a tightened jaw, earning a _cluck_ of disapproval from Marius. “Alright… Lindon, take her to the physicians in _castrum tribus_.” 

A tall, dark-skinned man heeded Marius’ call, shouldering his way past Bellamy and Octavia. Leaning down to Dana, he said, quietly: “ _Lean mé, celi Danu_.”

Dana, looking for all the world like she would rather not, acquiesced, and Clerica and Marius watched as she followed the man quietly through the quickly dispersing crowd. Marius shook his head as he tracked their progress, a deep frown creasing his brow. “Someday, I fear, Claustrus will bring about the ruin of Rome,” he murmured to himself. 

Octavia strode to Clerica’s side leading their two horses and muttered: “And someday, I will bring about the ruin of Claustrus.”

Clerica smirked half-heartedly at the sentiment and turned to Marius, offering a smile of condolence. “Someday, perhaps. But not today.”

“Not today,” Marius agreed, before lapsing into thoughtful silence. 

Clerica broke it. 

“That slave – Dana? She is important to you?”

Marius shrugged. “She is new to my service,” he replied tiredly. “Her former _dominus_ and household were slaughtered when we drove the Britons out of Deva Victrix four weeks ago… We found her weeping over their bodies in the baths.”

 _We would have had her executed_ , Clerica thought. “I would like to take her into my own service, if I could,” she said. 

Marius blinked, surprised.

“I must familiarize myself with Britannia, with the Britons,” she explained. “As it stands, my knowledge is limited, to say the least. And, on a different point altogether, many of my own attendants have long perished since we arrived here.”

“Perished… By what means?”

“Accident. War. By ignorance of these lands and no fault of their own.”

“I see.” Marius looked after Lindon and Dana, both of whom had now disappeared into the dull light of the _castra_ around them. “I have no objections,” he replied. “I will have her sent to you tomorrow, when the _medicus_ is through with her.”

“Gratitude,” Clerica said, inclining her head. 

Marius gave a small bow in return, his mood lightening considerably. “Very well! We have spent altogether too much time in this wretched cold, you especially. I think it is time now that you all retire for a bit of rest and warmth, don’t you?”

Bellamy gave a raucous cheer from nearby, joined in chorus by Viridus and Descendus, to whom he was giving orders. 

“Shortly, Marius,” Clerica smiled. “First, I am tasked with retrieving our good empress from wherever she now finds herself along this great, winding train…” She gestured broadly at the steady stream of soldiers and supply caravans trailing behind them on the road.

“Ah… A responsibility I will not envy of you this night,” Marius chuckled. “But be that as it may… Come to my quarters in the morning when you are sufficiently rested. We have much yet to discuss, with each other, and with the emperor.”

“Of course.” She gave a curt nod. “Until the morning, Marius.”

“Until the morning.” 

With that, he turned and trudged back towards the camps, a small company trailing in his wake. Clerica retrieved the reins of her horse from Octavia and the great beast nuzzled at her hand. A creature of war was never so gentle. 

Octavia leaned close as she scratched at the steed’s ears. “In the mood for a rough fuck, are we?”

Clerica cocked an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“She just held a knife to your throat, Clerica,” the Sarmatian said, pointedly. “You should be hanging her, not hiring her.”

“Ah, you saw that, did you?” 

“I see _everything_.”

“Then you also saw the part where she didn’t, in fact, kill me?” Octavia grunted. “I want you to watch her,” Clerica continued. “Everywhere she goes, everything she does. Every _one_ she does.”

“You want me to spy on your new pet? I’m sorry, but that is quite outside my office, _tribunus_. Or _dux_? Is it _dux_ yet? Or do we need to kill Verus before that’s official?”

Clerica winced at the candor. “I want you to make sure my ‘new pet’ is _just_ a pet, and not something else.”

“What else do you think she might be?”

“Well,” she replied, “I was thinking she might be one of those demons you spoke of earlier.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes, wary. “In God’s name, you pray,” she said cynically, giving Clerica a leg up onto her horse, shaking her head as she did. Octavia had never understood why Romans so stubbornly refused to incorporate a stirrup into their saddle designs, and theorized that the Romans’ lack of open-mindedness towards such things was precisely why they suffered such heavy losses against cavalry forces in the east. Clerica was not knowledgeable enough on the subject to disagree. 

“Just… watch her,” she repeated, settling into the saddle and veering towards the road. “Report to me with anything you find.”

As she cantered away, she was followed by a resentful huff. _Fucking Romans_ , she assumed. 

***

She heard the empress’s cart long before it emerged from the dark, its wheels grating irritably against the road. While a vehicle of luxury, there was nothing truly relaxing about travel by _carruca_ , or travelling with one. The noise of it was prone to drive passengers and those nearby mad, the shriek of steel on cobblestone rending through one’s very core. As she approached, the cart, she felt her horse brace himself beneath her, startled by the clamour invading its body. She leaned forward and pet his neck comfortingly.

She trotted up to the cart’s driver, slowing so that she was in time with his pace. “I come to collect the empress and bring her to our camp at Isurium Brigantium,” she announced, formally.

The driver shrugged. “The empress is not at home, _tribunus_ ,” he said. 

“… What do you mean?”

She sensed another rider approach from behind and settle alongside her. “He _means_ that the empress couldn’t bear to ride along in that torture chamber any longer, and so, went rogue, stealing an _equite_ ’s horse to escape her cruel fate.”

Clerica turned from the cart driver to face the empress, whose large, doe-eyes smiled at her mischievously. Coithia was a startlingly beautiful woman, a heart-shaped face boasting feline features and a mouth that knew well to offer a straight smile, but oft preferred a crooked one. It was the latter she shared with Clerica now, moments before leaning in and pressing it chastely to her own. Any Roman looking on would have thought the empress had but missed Clerica’s cheek as her horse adjusted its feet, or else that they were simply old friends. Any Roman looking on would not have seen the quick tongue that had danced along Clerica’s lower lip before the empress pulled away. 

“ _Tribunus_ ,” she greeted, still smiling. “I trust you have had as tiring an evening as the rest of us?”

“And one not yet willing to end, I expect, _Augusta_ ,” Clerica replied. She maintained the formality of her tone. “Though perhaps I can bring some finality to your own. _Augustus_ sends me to bring you to him at his temporary quarters.”

Coithia’s brows shrugged with disappointment as she wheeled away from Clerica to address the soldiers and members of her household who marched alongside the cart. “It seems _Augustus_ now asks that I part from you, my friends!” she cried with playful remorse. Her audience cheered her good-naturedly, though they seemed sad to see the end of her. Isurium Brigantum was still a long way away for them, and Clerica knew the empress’s spirited presence would be sorely missed. “Gratitude for your company and rapport this night! I bid you all a very fond farewell… until our next journey!” She leaped gracefully from the horse she rode and walked it to the care of a cavalryman. “And to you, good Pithius,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “my deepest thanks for the honour of your steed. She is a truly beautiful creature.”

Pithius bowed his head. “The honour is my own, _Augusta_ ,” he mumbled. Clerica guessed he was thankful of the lack of light; even in the cold, she imagined his face was red-hot at the empress’s touch. 

Two men rushed forward as Coithia approached Clerica, offering their knees that the empress might better mount up behind her. As she did, Clerica unbuckled her cloak, casting the fur about both of them once Coithia had wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, her chin resting on Clerica’s shoulder. Settled, Clerica kicked her horse forward, the empress waving a final farewell to her former company as they passed out of sight. 

It was not long before Clerica felt the empress bury her face in her neck, one hand wandering teasingly up her thigh, while the fingers of the other snaked delicately around the other side of her throat. Feather-light kisses ghosted across her skin. 

“I think… you have missed me… _tribunus_ ,” Coithia whispered, that wicked smile all too evident behind the words as she pressed suggestively into Clerica’s back. The hand at her thigh crept under the mail that hung past her waist and began to fiddle with the laces of her pants. Kissing further down her neck, she startled Clerica with a small, unexpected cry.

“Or perhaps you have found someone else to warm your bed of late? Someone with… teeth?” She bit into her gently and Clerica moaned, her body rebelling as Coithia aggravated the angry dents in her flesh where the slave had left a mark earlier, only to withdraw and sooth the wounds with her tongue. The empress laughed quietly and pressed a warm cheek to Clerica’s cold one, her fingers stroking the back of her neck. “Hmmm?” 

Clerica tried not to be distracted by Coithia’s other hand, which had conquered the laces at her crotch and slipped inside, tracing dangerously along her lower belly. Indignantly, she squirmed in the saddle. “That… was from a slave I saved from execution,” she breathed into the empress’s ear. “I shouldn’t have been surprised… You have given me every reason to believe in the savagery of Britons.”

The hand roamed a little further down, two fingers now stroking either side of her centre. “Savagery?” Coithia purred, nibbling at the lobe of her ear and grinding forward in the saddle. “Would you like a few more reasons, Clerica?”

Her breath caught in her throat at the rasp of her own name, and she growled to overcome it. “Like getting _me_ executed for letting the empress fuck me in front of several legions –” She groaned audibly as Coithia’s fingers slid firmly through the sleek wetness between her legs, before plunging easily inside her. 

“Ah, you _did_ miss me, then,” Coithia hummed triumphantly as Clerica grinded down helplessly on her hand, the action disguised, and to some degree aided, by the jostling of her steed’s trot. The closer Isurium Brigantum came, the closer Clerica felt to coming, the fingers inside her curling with each thrust, and the thumb brushing the bud of her clit as she drove shamelessly towards release. However, as they neared the head of the convoy into the _castra_ , and the empress infuriatingly withdrew her hand.

“What did I tell you?” she complained, indignantly. Coithia grinned wolfishly as she licked her tantalizingly from her fingers. “Fucking savages, all of you.” 

“Mhmmm…” The empress nuzzled her cheek affectionately and pressed a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Perhaps later you can instruct me on more appropriate etiquette… But for now, I must attend to my husband.”

Clerica sighed and slowed her horse to a walk as they arrived at the camps. “If you aren’t going to finish me off,” she murmured, leaning back, “you could at least do me the courtesy of lacing me back up.”

Coithia gratified the request, both hands snaking down around her waist. It was all Clerica could do at this point to resist the urge to buck against them as the fingers surreptitiously knotted and tied. As she completed the task, Clerica hailed a soldier on guard at the nearest camp.

“We look for Marius’ quarters; in which camp might we find them?”

The man pointed. “Second, on the right. Though the emperor currently takes his rest there. We have orders that he is not to be disturbed.”

As she made to respond, Coithia suddenly pressed the heel of her palm to Clerica’s already sensitive centre and pleasure pulsed through her, interrupting whatever words she had prepared.

“Gratitude,” the empress called to the soldier, steadying Clerica against her own breast. “I assure you, we will leave him to his peace!” Clerica could hear the dual smile in her tone, the one reserved for her deafening as she rode out the final waves of the orgasm. Coithia nudged the horse toward the camp they had been directed to, a chuckle vibrating deep in her chest. “You’re welcome, by the way,” she whispered, stroking Clerica delicately through her trousers. 

Clerica shuddered at the touch, turning her head to glare at Coithia. “Savage,” she reiterated.

In the dark between the _castra_ , none but Clerica saw the empress smile and nod, “Uh-huh,” before leaning in and taking her, open-mouthed. 

***

The woman that crept into Clerica’s bed as she wavered on the edge of sleep hours later was quieter than the one she had left at Duranus' door. She curled into Clerica’s side almost childlike and pressed a light but deliberate kiss to her collarbone. 

“I’ve missed you, too, Clerica.”

The haze around her grew ever thicker, and Clerica only barely picked up on the subtle tone in the empress’s small voice. “Is everything… alright…?” she asked thickly. Preemptively, she pulled Coithia close, allowing her own warmth to seep into the body next to her. 

It was a while before any answer came, and when Clerica eventually felt her friend give a tiny shake of her head, she was too far away to respond.

She woke with the sun to find the bed cold and lonely, the taste of pomegranate still on her tongue.


	3. Timor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and character indexes can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8036164/chapters/18403975)

Octavia started slightly when Clerica ripped back the flap of the _praetorium_ ’s tent to join her in the chill morning air. She was throwing her dagger at a log of firewood, the blade hitting the lumber with a soft _thunk_ every few seconds in a slow rhythm, never missing a beat. Clerica watched from the door for a moment before making her way to a large stump behind her _praefectus alae_ and gingerly taking a seat. Octavia continued – as she had for what Clerica could only assume was the better part of the last hour – whipping the dagger at the log again and again.

 _Thunk_.

 _Thunk_.

 _Thunk_.

“What are you doing?” she asked eventually.

 _Thunk_.

“Practicing.”

 _Thunk_.

 _Thunk_.

“For what?” Clerica raised an eyebrow.

 _Thunk_.

Octavia glanced across the _principium_ briefly as she retrieved her knife. Following her eyes, Clerica saw the slave, Dana, struggling up the _via praetoria_ with an enormous pot of water. Even from here, she could see the darkened state of the Briton’s eye where Claustrus had struck her the night before. 

_Thunk_.

Clerica laughed. “Octavia, you can’t just kill everyone you don’t trust.”

 _Thunk_.

The look Octavia shot at her as she took a step further from her target clearly communicated that, on the contrary, yes, she could. 

_Thunk_.

“If you kill my slave, rest assured you _will_ take over her duties, _praefectus_.”

 _Thunk_.

“Ooh, is that a promise, _tribunus_?” Octavia returned with a sarcastically hopeful tone. “Only, it’s been so long since you last” _thunk_ “-ed me… are you sure you remember how?”

“I’m _not_ –” 

“And to think, _Augustus_ worried I would have nothing in common with the soldiers of his legions…” Coithia emerged from around the corner of the _praetorium_ , her mouth twisting coyly as it was ever wont to do, pale blue eyes seeking out Clerica’s own. Something flickered there briefly, beyond the gay demeanour that Clerica was so used to, and she recalled briefly the mood with which the empress had returned to her as she slept. “Thankfully, it seems I am just as barbaric as the day I left this land.”

For as long as Clerica had known her, the empress had delighted in walking the greyer paths of impropriety. It was a weapon of discourse she wielded to throw her opponents off-balance, and she brandished it with a deftness few dared compete with. Octavia, while sharp of tongue herself, had ever preferred a comparatively blunt approach. That being said, she didn’t often keep company with anyone so highly stationed as Coithia. Not knowing how to respond to the empress’s candor, she elected instead to politely ignore it altogether. 

“ _Augusta_ ,” she greeted, bowing deeply. “We had not looked for you in our _castrum_ last night…”

Coithia held Clerica’s gaze for a moment longer before turning to the Sarmatian. “No,” she replied, her tone light. “I fear my own quarters were compromised on the road. The _tribunus_ has been kind enough to lend me her own while the necessary repairs are being made.” She smiled sweetly, and Octavia shot Clerica a glance that managed to plead and chastise all at once.

Wary to the edge behind Coithia’s otherwise-charming demeanour, Clerica stepped between them and placed a hand on Octavia’s shoulder. “Forgive me, _Augusta_ ,” she interrupted, “but I believe we are expected in Marius’ _castrum_ shortly. And Pallida here was just leaving to confer with the _speculatores_ … Weren’t you?”

Octavia regained her composure at the promise of escape. “Yes, _tribunus_ ,” she replied, brusquely. “I will report back with our findings on… the matter, upon your return.”

“Very good. You are dismissed.”

The Sarmatian nodded curtly to Clerica and bowed deeply for Coithia with a humble “ _Augusta_ ” before turning on her heel, a sigh of relief held high in her breast. She trudged away with a stiff back, her crimson cloak fluttering weakly in her wake. 

“You are impossible, you know,” Clerica scolded good-naturedly, as she watched Octavia make her way for the _porta praetoria_. “How you torture us all…”

Octavia passed Dana as she progressed down the who swerved dramatically in an attempt to get out of the way, loosing half the pot of water on Octavia. The pot itself fell to the ground as the slave hurriedly and desperately tried to express her fault to the now drenched _praefectus_ , who stood stock-still in the freezing winter air. Seemingly resisting an urge to glare back at Clerica, Octavia resumed her stiff walk, no doubt making for a fire and a new change of clothes instead of whatever she had planned previously. Dana hastily retrieved her pot from the ground and made her way back down the road to refurbish her load. 

As Clerica watched the silent confrontation, Coithia hummed cynically, summoning her gaze with a skeptical eyebrow. Rolling her eyes, Clerica threw back the flap to the tent, ushering the empress through and following after her. When the flap had fallen closed, Coithia turned to face her with words on her tongue, only for Clerica to press forcefully against her and steal them passionately with her own. In spite of herself, the empress responded, her hands reaching up Clerica’s neck and turning her own head to deepen the kiss further as Clerica backed her aggressively into one of the sturdy central beams holding up the roof. Seizing the cloth of Coithia’s gown in her fists, she drew it up between them before snaking both hands around to clutch at the empress’s arse. 

Clerica broke away from the kiss, tearing at Coithia’s lip as she did, and moved to her ear, pushing a thigh between the empress’s own. “ _Once_ ,” she breathed fiercely, “and _she_ was still there when I woke.”

She surged forward again and Coithia accepted the effort breathless and hungry, a gleeful purr in her throat and a selfish resolve in her embrace. Dragging her tongue provocatively inside Coithia’s lower lip, Clerica found herself relishing the empress’s apparent jealousy almost as much as she did everything else about her. She determined to explore the emotion in greater detail later, but for now – 

“Stop –” Coithia pulled away panting, pressing her palms firmly to Clerica’s chest so she could not close the gap. She smiled apologetically, squeezing Clerica’s breasts slightly as she did. “Stop. We have to go.”

Clerica sighed and cradled the empress’s face in her hands, stroking gently along her jaw. That look, the one she had taken to be envy, or something of the like, was still visible, if a little lessened. Search though she did, the empress yielded up none of her secrets – indeed, it was rare that she ever did – so Clerica shrugged in defeat and pressed a tender kiss to her cheek. “As you wish, _Augusta_ ,” she said, with a quiet smile. 

But Coithia did not make to move. She stood quite still, her breathing slowing, her excited pulse calming to a mere flutter at Clerica’s palm. Carefully, Clerica stepped back towards her, and some resolve within the empress crumpled, her arms slackened, and she allowed Clerica to pull her in close, enveloping her. More than a little shocked by the sudden fragility, Clerica didn’t say a word.

_What are you hiding from me?_

Casting her mind back, Clerica could not recall a time where she had seen Coithia so frail. The empress, and the woman behind her, had always been a light and lively creature, passionate in all respects. It struck her now, as she traced gently up and down her friend’s back, that there was a lurking heaviness to Coithia that was entirely unfamiliar, and an uncomfortable wariness that was far more pervasive than she had displayed even when her son was born. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, quietly. 

Coithia hesitated for a while before answering. “No.” She was tired. “No, we need to go…” She pulled away slowly, drawing Clerica’s hands forward into her own. With all the humility she had, she lifted Clerica’s hands to her lips and kissed each one. The gesture was an oddly intimate one, particularly given their respective positions. “ _Thank you_ ,” she whispered forcefully, her brows slightly shrugging in sincerity. 

Clerica swept a lock from Coithia’s cheek with a small, reassuring smile, only to be startled back to decency by a pair of heavy, uneven footsteps approaching outside the tent. 

Dana entered with some difficulty, struggling under the weight of her heavy pot of water. Crossing to a veiled section at the back of the tent, she dumped the water into a great bronze tub. Judging by the sound of the water ricocheting off the metal, this was the first of many trips the Briton would be making to the nearby river. As she made her way back to the door, she noticed she was not alone, and drew back, suddenly wary. It was not until she recognized Clerica that her body seemed to release any modicum of tension, and only a small amount, at that. She dropped her defensive stance immediately and averted her eyes to the floor.

“ _Tribunus_ ,” she acknowledged. 

Clerica strode forward as Coithia looked on behind her, curiously. “Dana, the _Augusta_ will be staying in these quarters until such a time as her own have been made ready. You will serve her in all things as if she were me, am I understood?”

Dana’s attention darted towards the empress and took her in, but she did not utter a word. A bubble of tension formed in Clerica’s chest, and she made to step forward, too close, to make her displeasure plain. She was stopped by Coithia, who swept between them, immediately dissipating Clerica’s brewing intent, and corralling her subtly to the side. Those intentions burned hotter as Clerica watched the slave straighten and raise her head, meeting the empress’s eyes with a pale green stare of her own. It struck Clerica momentarily that the two Britons held a nearly level gaze – one that stood ever so slightly above her own. 

Coithia appraised the woman for a moment before speaking. Clerica had never heard her speak her mother tongue conversely; she did not know how to read the tone, and the empress’s face was impassive. “Beth wyt ti, dόer?”

“Na wyt yn dόer,” came the reply. The tone there was a prideful one, Clerica noted. 

Coithia’s mouth turned up slightly. It was a diplomatic smirk, Clerica thought, not a friendly one. “Na?” Her eyes narrowed. “Na wyt ti fy dόer?” She nodded in Clerica’s direction. “Na wyt ti _ei_ dόer?”

“Wyt yn celi Dôn. Wyt yn dόer i neb.” The defiance in the slave’s voice softened a little before she continued. “Beth wyt _ti_ , rígan?”

Coithia did not respond immediately, and glancing at her, Clerica saw that odd look in her eye yet again, the look she could not identify. When she smiled again, it seemed barely to reach those eyes, and Clerica was stricken by how incredibly hollow that smile was. “Wyt yn rígan,” she replied. “Wyt yn dόer i bawb.”

Dana smiled ruefully in her turn, and looked down at the pot in her hands skeptically. “Fe allai...?” she turned the pot upside down and held it above her own head. Coithia burst out laughing, and Clerica shifted uncomfortably, feeling entirely out of sorts. Noting Clerica’s reaction, the slave shrugged and lowered the pot. “Na fe allai.”

Recovering from her bout of mirth, Coithia inclined her head kindly to Dana, her smile now a little warmer. “Thank you, _celi Dôn_ , that will do.” 

Dismissed, the slave bowed slightly before them both, dark hair tiding from her shoulders as she did so. As she slipped out of the tent, Clerica watched the empress look on after her, sighing and shaking her head. When she turned to Clerica, her mouth was quirked in a roguish smirk, her mood of from moments before all but forgotten. 

“What?” Clerica demanded. “What was that all about?”

Coithia shook her head again, still smiling. “Nothing.” She dragged Clerica to her as she backed towards Clerica’s sleeping quarters. Drawing in close, she coaxed Clerica’s mouth open with nagging, playful kisses. “If we’re quick,” she whispered, breath growing heavy as she spoke, “we might have time before they come looking for us.”

As she pushed the empress onto her bed and bent between her thighs, Clerica discovered that speed was probably not going to be an issue. She tried not to be too cautious. 

***

Aching in all the right places as she settled into the saddle, Clerica turned to the empress. “What does ‘ _celi Danu_ ’ mean? And ‘ _celi Dôn_ ’?”

Coithia chuckled. “You have been listening…”

“How am I to learn unless I listen?” She subtly nudged Coithia with an elbow where she rode close beside her. They rode without an escort, but while their words were obscured by the morning bustling of the _castra_ , their actions were not. Whatever the private improprieties Clerica inflicted on the empress in her own bed, in public, Coithia was miles above her station. Wont though she was to playfully lower herself to present company, that prerogative lay with the empress, and the empress alone. 

“You are a Christian, are you not?” The question was matter-of-fact.

“Yes, of course,” Clerica responded without hesitation. “Nicene. You know this.” 

“Precisely.” Coithia quirked a smile. “And what am I?” Religion had been a constant issue for her since her marriage to Duranus. Raised in the Arian faith by her father, and well-versed in the British practices of her mother, Coithia had come under much scrutiny by Duranus’ Nicene court. She had ultimately been forced to abandon both of her faiths, at least for the sake of public appearances. In the early stages of the marriage, Clerica had been privy to frequent rants on the injustice of the ban. Her fury had been terrifying to behold at times, a tempestuous anger that had recalled for Clerica harrowing tales of her naval counterparts on the North Sea. 

In the end, the empress had conquered her husband’s will with the one absolute power she had over him. Pregnant with their one and only child, she had glared fire at the emperor and uttered venomously: “I am the Empress of Rome, and you will let me pray in my manner, husband, or so help me _God_ , I will purge this child of yours and every after it from my body, and throw them into the sea!” 

Duranus had taken the menacing threat under advisement and allowed his wife her prayers. 

Smiling at the memory, Clerica replied, “Why, you are the Empress of Rome!”

“Indeed,” Coithia hummed her amusement before continuing. “The Britons have gods of their own, as you know. Some of these, we all worship, in our way. One of the popular goddesses here in the north is called Dôn. She is not unlike Christ’s mother, Mary, I suppose. A mother goddess.”

“A mother goddess?” Clerica mused. 

Coithia nodded. “’Danu’ is just another of her names. She is called this in Hibernia, mostly.” She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “She is most popular with the Damnonii of Alclud, who are among the most powerful peoples in the north.” She seemed to think on that. “When I was a child, the kingdom of Alclud grew to control all the lands surrounding the Severan Wall, from Alclud to Camlann.” She paused for a moment as she maneuvered her steed around a large, muddy puddle. “Odd how quickly the balance of power shifts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Odd that of all people, it would be the queen of the Selgovae that would lead this great alliance of Britons. They have been a small and insignificant tribe all my life, and long before it. They were all but destroyed by Agricola long ago. Alclud, however… Their king was known throughout Britannia for his skill in battle. He might have conquered all the north, if not the whole island, if it were to his liking. Or so I was told.” Coithia shrugged. “Men rise and fall with every harvest in this land. Evidently, Ceredig of Alclud was no great exception.”

They continued riding leisurely for a short while before Coithia spoke again. “In any case, ‘ _celi Dôn_ ’ is simply a ‘follower of Dôn’, that’s all.” 

Clerica nodded. “Should I be concerned?”

Coithia turned to her with a false blank stare, and Clerica realized that the empress thought she was inquiring further about earlier matters. She did not appear pleased to return to the topic. _Clearly not that far from your thoughts then, love._

“Should I be concerned about _Dana_ ,” she qualified, quietly, drawing up in front of the _principia_ in Marius’ camp. 

“It says rather a lot about your upbringing that you would fear someone with a healthy respect for mothering roles, don’t you think, _tribunus_?” Coithia’s tone was saucy, but playfully so. 

Dismounting, Clerica circled round to help the empress from her own saddle. “Must you always cast so poor a reflection on me, _Augusta_?” she asked. She heaved an internal sigh of relief that Coithia’s mood had successfully rebounded. 

Swinging a leg behind her and sliding easily into Clerica’s waiting arms, Coithia leaned into her as she cushioned her fall. “The better to woo you with, my dear,” she sang softly. And, linking their arms, she led Clerica into the tent. “Off to war, then.”

***

“I don’t understand why we have to negotiate with these _savages_ ,” Claustrus growled, pounding a fist on the cluttered map table they were clustered around. 

Clerica watched from her chair as Coithia glared into Claustrus’ back from across the room. She had been circling them impassively for much of the morning, having foregone her seat some time ago. To anyone else, the empress deserting the table might have seemed an indication of growing boredom with the matters at hand; to Clerica, it was a clear sign of impatience, and a desire to keep her body occupied with things other than thrusting a knife into her stepson’s ever-bobbing throat. As the council had dragged on, Clerica was unsure if that drive was stronger in Coithia or Marius, or, indeed, herself.

Clerica didn’t yet know how she felt about the Selgovae, their queen, or her coalition. She knew that they had nearly reconquered Britannia in a remarkably short period of time, albeit with surprise aiding them in their success. She knew that this made them a threat, not just to Britannia, but perhaps to other dioceses as well. She knew that to manufacture an alliance and subsequent invasion of Roman territory was no easy task, and the mind – or minds – behind those feats needed to be either brought on side or neutralized in order to end the current situation and future sources of conflict. 

Thanks to Coithia and others, she also knew that there were concrete reasons behind this revolt, reasons why it had occurred, reasons why it had been so successful. And indeed, though she had no love for the Britons as a whole, with Coithia’s guidance – and perhaps, more than a little of her influence – she found herself empathizing with a number of those reasons. 

However, regardless of her feelings, it was not her job to empathize. It was her job to neutralize the threat to Rome in the most efficient way possible. Currently, and in most situations, that way was through diplomacy. Further bloodshed was not strictly necessary at the present time, nor was it definitively productive. 

“Perhaps if you spent more time at the _limes_ , you would glean greater comprehension,” Clerica said coolly. “The power of Rome is not in doubt, but the stability of her borders most certainly is.” She traced the edges of Germania on the map before her, the boundaries she knew better than almost anyone. “We face weekly raids across the Western Empire, from all sides. Some days it is the looting of farms and small villages, others it is the complete razing of towns. We have barbarians entering our territory by the thousands to take our land by force.”

Claustrus levelled a scowl at her. “And whose job is it to marshal the threat of invasion, Morta? Oh! Oh wait! That’s _you_ , isn’t it? What the fuck have you been doing – or _not_ doing – to make the barbarians so bold? By all means, let’s just welcome them all in and give them whatever the fuck they want, it’s clearly working so very well!”

“This empire has lasted as long as it has because _most_ of its rulers have been shrewd in their use of force,” Clerica continued, ignoring the remarks and broadening her gaze to include Marius and the emperor. “Our policy – _your_ policy, _Augustus_ – has ever been one that seeks to solve disputes with words rather than swords, insofar as discussion is possible. And we have flourished under such policies where we might otherwise have done tremendous self-harm.

“ _Yes_ , we suffer frequent threats. But we enjoy a great many benefits as well. Here,” she pointed to northern Gaul on the map, “Julian allowed the Franks to settle peacefully within our borders, and have they not honoured their pact? Have they not tirelessly helped us defend those borders from other tribes?” She pointed next to the region north of the Black Sea. “Have we not benefited greatly from our relationship with the Sarmatians as well, both militarily and economically?” She spread her hands across the whole of the map. “Is not the might of Rome a many-fingered fist, each comprising a people no longer Roman, but just as barbaric as the Britons beyond the Wall?

“It seems to me that Rome has ever been strongest when she chooses to learn from her enemies, and adopt them as her friends. We have been friends with the Britons before, and the Britons have been friends with us. Given the circumstances of the situation at hand, given that it has evidently been the abuse of power demonstrated by Verus, and who knows how many others, should we not at least _try_ to find an amicable solution?”

Both Marius and Duranus were looking at her with looks of satisfied approval. Coithia looked torn between gratitude and a desire to tear off her clothes and fuck her on the table right there. Claustrus, on the other hand, glowered at her from under a dark brow. Angrily, he pushed himself up from his chair and stalked around the table and behind Clerica to pour himself some more wine. Sipping it delicately, he turned his attention back to them. 

“I _understand_ why we have done this until now. I _understand_ that we reap rewards from our relationships with the barbarians. But for whatever reason,” he glanced deliberately at Coithia, “you seem incapable of recognizing that _these_ barbarians have managed to nearly banish Rome from Britannia in its entirety, Morta. The Britons have stricken Rome, and if we do not answer with force, we are made to look weak to every threat outside and _inside_ our borders. We have Goths sweeping towards us from the east; how are we to negotiate with that substantial threat if we forgive the Britons for this?” He trained his gaze on the empress, almost daring her to react. “Why not rid ourselves of this problem once and for all? Have we not done it before?”

“What are you suggesting?” Marius’ tone was wary. 

“He is suggesting a massacre.” Coithia approached and leaned into the table, her fingers clawing into the wood, voice threateningly low. Clerica glanced at her briefly, noting that Claustrus was walking dangerously close to a line that Coithia was absolutely not interested in seeing crossed. 

“After that she-wolf of the Iceni laid waste to Britannia, Agricola rooted out the rebellious tribes and ended all resistance to Rome,” Claustrus continued. “We have grown slack and weak in the centuries since then. And now we face the same problem. I see no issue with preparing the same solution. We cut our losses where the Britons are concerned. They are more trouble than they have ever been worth.” He spread his arms wide in a gesture of open disclosure. “Speak to our money mongers, I invite you. Britannia may offer Rome the prestige of greater boundaries, but it is a drain on our economy and a waste of legions if not held easily in its entirety. Either we kill them all and repopulate with trustworthy allies, or we leave this frozen shit of an island to feast on its own filth and divert our forces to Hispania and its gold mines.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him which option they favoured.

On the most basic, theoretical level, Clerica did not disagree with Claustrus’ suggested strategy. To utterly wipe out the Britons north of the wall would send a clear, uncompromising message to all barbarians contemplating invasion or rebellion against Rome. It would also eliminate the threat beyond the wall for good, assuming that it were to be so complete as to crush any resistance. 

However, _practically_ , there were a number of things that negated the value of such an approach. The first was the overarching impossibility of the action. Britannia did not have the strength of numbers to execute a full-scale genocide of the natives, and Rome could not afford to pull legions from elsewhere. Even if they had the men, there was no guarantee that they would be willing to commit such an act; the overwhelming majority of Roman legions were made up of barbarians from allied tribes, and being so ordered might well result in mass mutinies across the empire. After all, the Britons had revolted because Rome had betrayed her alliance with them, not the other way around. And if the Britons could not trust the friendship of Rome, how could anyone else?

“If you see no issue with repeating the mistakes of the past, then you are a greater fool than I have given you credit for,” Marius said, picking up where Coithia seemed wont to continue. “Even if we had the strength in numbers to destroy the Coalition, this would breed even deeper malcontent. Or have you not noticed that the retribution of Rome was unsuccessful? Agricola sought to destroy our enemies in the north, and in doing so, he brewed for us a great wave which Verus in his madness stoked to life, and we will be lucky to tame. The Selgovae survived the wrath of Rome, and, with their ‘ _rixa_ ’, have dealt a hammer stroke to the very heart of the Western Empire.”

“I have crossed many seas, Marius, and never has a Roman ship failed to ride a wave safely to shore. The Britons may make all the waves they wish; Rome will build a hurricane the likes of which this world has never seen –” 

“You will _not_!” Duranus’ voice shook with the effort to raise above the growing debate, but old and haggard though he was, the emperor knew well how to command a room. Passing a tired hand over his eyes, he locked his gaze on his son firmly. “So long as I am emperor, Claustrus, it is my voice that will command the legions of Rome. And so long as I am emperor, those legions will be used only when force is absolutely necessary. Marius has assured us that the Britons are willing to come to a compromise. He has assured us that their young queen is a wise and considered leader with whom we can make honest terms. I am inclined to accept his judgement, insofar as it proves true in our meetings with her.”

“But father –”

“ _No_. The kingdoms north of the wall have been valuable clients of Rome for centuries, and they will be so again. I will not have the loss of this diocese mar my name for the chroniclers. It will be held, and it will be held in peace.”

He glanced around the table, as if allowing the airing of any further objections to his decision. When nothing but a sulky frown from Claustrus was forthcoming, he waved a hand. “Very well, then. You are all dismissed.” 

Clerica and Marius rose from their seats, relishing the ability to stretch their legs, and their pride, having quashed Claustrus’ efforts to divert proceedings. Not that there had been much doubt regarding Duranus’ mindset. The emperor was a man of tradition as much as he was of sense. There would be punishment for this great conspiracy, no doubt, but he would ensure that punishment was of a reasonable standard and delivered to the appropriate recipients. Claustrus’ suggestions, though superficially logical, were chaotic and violent, and likely to result in further problems. While not surprised, Clerica was glad the emperor did not share his son’s perspectives. 

As she and Marius made to follow a furious Claustrus from the room, Duranus called Clerica back. “We’ll talk later,” Marius told her quietly, patting her arm with a proud smile. “Well done today.”

Clerica nodded, and turned back to the emperor, who was swatting his wife away as she tried to help him to his feet. “Not now!” he huffed, irate, but not unkind. “Morta, stay with me a while?”

“Of course, _Augustus_.” Reluctantly, she returned to her seat, her arse complaining a little as she sat down.

Duranus peered at her thoughtfully over steepled fingers for a moment as Coithia sat down a little apart from the pair of them. “You are very shrewd, aren’t you?” he asked. 

Clerica hesitated a little. “I have been told so, _Augustus_ ,” she replied slowly. “I just try to do my job. Do what is best for Rome.”

The emperor nodded, a little absently. “And it is your opinion that what is best for Rome is to cooperate with the Britons?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Coithia, who watched them warily. 

“No.” Duranus shook his head slightly, leaning forward on the table. “No, do not look to my wife. What do _you_ think Morta?”

“I think…” Clerica bit her lip as she considered all sides for the hundredth time in the last few weeks. “I think there are many approaches to this situation, _Augustus_ , and a good deal of them have merit.” Duranus blinked as she paused. “I also think that there is a good deal that I do not know.” She drew a line with her finger along the journey they had made from Augusta Treverorum to Isurium Brigantum. “With every mile we have reclaimed in this campaign, I find myself learning new facets to this problem, to this land,” she glanced at Coithia, “to its people. There is much I have yet to learn. There is much, I think, that _we_ have yet to learn. 

“I do not know this Rigantona. I do not know in what manner she rules her people. I do not know how she came to her throne in the past, nor how she holds it now, nor indeed, how she means to hold it in the future. What I know of her is vague, and all the more ominous for being so… When you ask me if I think cooperation is the best policy, I will say ‘yes,’ because it _has_ been the best policy until now. But I will also say that until I know this queen of the Selgovae, until I understand her and the people she represents, I cannot say with certainty that diplomacy will best solve this situation. I do, however, think that we must, at least, try.” Her brow knitted darkly. “We must recognize that the barbarians are not the only ones at fault in this matter.”

Duranus nodded. “Verus.”

“If Verus had not slaughtered that village, would any of this have come to be?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems to have played a part, if only catalytically. Resolving it, however… it might be enough to weaken the fervour of this rebellion if done willingly and efficiently. To give us more room, more _time_ , to maneuver until we have a better understanding of what this Coalition truly aims to do.”

“Good.” The hint of a smile played across the emperor’s thin lips, and he hummed faintly. “Yes, very good.”

***

It was dark as Clerica returned to the 100th legion’s _castrum_ , Coithia remaining behind to dine with her husband, and share some choice words, no doubt. Clerica didn’t begrudge her that, though as she led her horse to the stables through the chilled night air, she found herself hoping the empress’s warm body would return to her before too long. 

_And stay put for the night_ , she thought, remembering the icy bed she had woken to. 

The horses were stabled a small, covered enclosure just off the _praetorium_. Clerica had never much liked leaving her steeds in such confined quarters. At her family’s home in Umbria, they were left to run free across the land, grazing in the green and golden fields and chasing the wind that flew down from the Sabine Hills. Here though, they were cramped and contained. 

The great white stallion seemed unperturbed by the size of the stall as they approached. Perhaps small spaces became friendlier after they became expected. Clerica wasn’t sure she could ever grow accustomed to such a thing, but she knew of people who had. Monks worshiped their tiny cells as if they were among God’s greatest gifts. Did a prisoner worship his cell, she wondered? Was there some solace in being shut off from the world, alone with one’s own thoughts? She could see how that might be the case. The world was ever so wide and worrying, after all. Perhaps being cut off from it all, whether it be via a literal or figurative blindness, made life a little easier to bear for many. 

As she removed the horse’s tack and saddle, she thought on that a little longer. There were many in Rome, she thought, who lived in that way. Who _chose_ to live in narrow spaces of mind. Claustrus was one. But she wasn’t sure that it made his life any easier. As cruel a man as he seemed to her, was he truly that at all? Or was he simply afraid? Was this desire to wipe out the Britons born out of hatred, or fear? And if indeed it was hate, where did that hatred come from? 

“ _Tribunus_?”

Alarmed, Clerica ripped her _pugio_ from the ornate sheath at her belt, whirling around and pressing the blade to the neck of the speaker, shoving them against a nearby stall. The horse behind the gate – it looked like Bellamy’s – startled and gave a few nervous winnicks before settling. Clerica’s steed remained quite still, unbothered, or perhaps too tired from the previous night’s ride to care. 

It took Clerica a few moments to recognize the face that was inches from her own. She withdrew the knife immediately. 

“ _Jesus FUCK_ ,” she swore, her heart pounding in her throat. “What the fuck are you doing, sneaking up on people in the dark?! Are you fucking insane? _Fuck_!”

For all that Clerica had nearly cut her throat, Dana looked notably calm. In the flickering torchlight, Clerica discerned a small measure of surprise, which quickly dissipated. 

“Apologies, _tribunus_ ,” the slave said quietly. She ducked her head in a gesture of meekness, but as she did, Clerica thought she saw her mouth twist in a sardonic smirk. When she lifted her head again to face Clerica, it was gone. 

“Well? What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Apologies,” Dana reiterated. “I saw you coming this way as I returned to your quarters to prepare your evening meal… I…” She paused, looking around. “The empress is not with you?”

Suddenly tired, Clerica dropped onto a nearby crate, sheathing the knife. “The empress will dine with the emperor tonight; she will return to this _castrum_ later this evening.” She drew a hand over her brow to find that the slave was still staring at her. She glared back. “Was there something else?”

Dana considered her words. “You discussed the fate of my people today,” she said carefully.

“I am not sure how that is any of your business, slave.”

A small smile. “Isn’t it?”

Clerica laughed mirthlessly as she got to her feet, picking up a discarded brush. “I will take my supper with the legion tonight,” she said, ignoring the question and setting to work on her steed’s coat. “Have my bath hot for when I return.”

The Briton clenched her jaw at the snub and watched her with what she assumed was disdain for a few solid moments before turning on her heel to leave. At the back of her mind, Clerica felt Coithia rebuking her. 

_For fuck’s sake_. 

“Wait!” Clerica called over her shoulder. At the door, Dana stopped. “The fury of Rome is great,” she explained. “But the emperor is fair, as is the _Comes Britanniarum_. You needn’t fear unjust retribution on their part.”

Dana did not respond immediately, but when she did, her words were quietly uncertain. “Rome said that the _Dux Britanniarum_ was also just.”

“The _Dux Britanniarum_ _was_ just,” Clerica said, turning to look Dana in the eye, “until he wasn’t. I am the new one.”

The slave nodded, seemingly a little comforted that Verus would not be reinstated. Clerica turned back to brushing the mud from the stallion’s belly. As she did, she heard a final question from the slave. “And who will keep _you_ just, _tribunus_?” 

Straightening up, she turned again to meet the Briton’s searching stare with a look of mild surprise. When she didn’t answer, Dana shook her head, a sad, minute smile on her lips, and walked slowly away. 

Clerica was alone. 


	4. Fenestras et Ostia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and character indexes can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8036164/chapters/18404146)

It was still dark when Clerica woke with a start, apprehensive tinglings alerting her to some unknown presence in her sleeping quarters. Slowly and subtly, she untangled herself from Coithia, the cold beginning to creep into her core absent the empress's warm body. There was movement behind her, near the door, and she whipped around, ripping out the small dagger she hid beneath her pillow. 

A shadow stood silent in the door to the room, very still. As her eyes adjusted to the poor light, Clerica appraised the situation as best she could, preparing herself to respond to any attack the Shadow might direct at her. Carefully, she shifted her body weight to give better leverage to catch the expected blow. But no blow came.

"Who are you?" she murmured. "What do you want?"

The Shadow was silent. 

Clerica continued to move, and the Shadow seemed to watch her as she slipped her legs over the side of the bed into the cold air. She winced slightly as she placed her feet firmly on the floor: Dana had neglected the fire again, and the thick carpet felt icy and damp. No longer sharing the warmth of the furs, goose pimples rose on her skin, and she was conscious of her bared nipples hardening to the chill. 

_Even if I survive this, my tits will have frozen off. I might just let Octavia kill that little_ -

"If you will not tell me what you wish of me, I cannot help you. Be gone."

Still, the Shadow was silent. 

"Who are you?" she hissed again, gripping tightly at the hilt. "Some shade of the underworld?"

She took a step forward, more assuredly than she felt in her starkly naked state. 

"What name was written on your grave, shade? Who wrote the curse, that you might haunt me this night?"

Silence.

Clerica took another slow step. And another. And, with no response forthcoming, she began to stride purposefully towards the shadow, until she was bearing down upon it. But with each step, the form became smaller, hazier somehow, like a star that fades at the centre of one's attention. As she made to raise her knife to where the Shadow's throat might have been, she found that it had disappeared entirely, leaving naught but the cold sweat at her palms and neck. 

A sudden shriek erupted behind her, and whirling around, she could make out Coithia's form struggling beneath another shadow - was it the same one? - thrashing wildly to escape its blurred clutches. 

Panic and fury rising in her chest at what she was witnessing, Clerica moved to act, to do something - anything - but as a great roar made its way up her throat, she felt a vice close around it, dragging her back and halting her forward momentum. She scrabbled desperately at the - hands? Were they hands? - that were crushing her throat, only to find that there was nothing there, nothing to grip, nothing to tear. Her eyes were watering, tears of pain and distress flooding down her cheeks as she struggled to breathe, her already-blurred vision flickering in and out of focus as the oxygen flow to her brain ceased altogether. Her resistance became weaker, her movements less and less virile, until she felt herself sagging to the floor, fading rapidly. 

Coithia was still screaming, she thought, but Clerica could no longer hear her. She could see her mouth stretched wide, the terrific pall of her horrified face, but there was no longer any sound. As she expired, however, the Empress stopped screaming, her jaw going slack. Her eyes dulled even as Clerica's sight blackened, casting a cold tone on the tears that tracked slowly over her nose as she stared back at her.

***

For a second time, Clerica found herself awake, this time stirred gently by a warm hand stroking gently at her cheek and a melodic voice singing softly in her ear. 

_Níl fy chariad i lawr yn muir glas_  
_Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal_  
_O i guidid y bydd yn ar ais_  
_Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal_  
_Níl fy tiros, níl fy kagrom,_  
_Níl fy agored flann kridyom._  
_Ffaldi radl didl dal,_  
_Ffaldi radl didl dal,_  
_Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal._

Noting that Clerica had finally woken, Coithia finished her murmured lullaby and smiled as she placed a delicate kiss to her temple. "Níl wyt ti, chariad," she whispered.

Clerica turned towards her, snuggling into her neck and reveling in the warmth she had feared lost only moments before. "Here I am," she smiled back. 

Coithia hummed her approval. It buzzed pleasantly through her body, and Clerica shrugged closer. "You're learning."

Clerica nodded and cuddled sleepily into Coithia's chest, an arm snaking easily around her waist. "That was nice," she said, brushing innocuously at a nipple. "What was it about?"

"I suppose it is about what all old songs are about," Coithia sighed, slipping her other arm under Clerica's head and embracing her completely. 

"And what is that?"

"Well… love, I suppose," she answered. "Love, and the things we do for it."

"Ah…" Clerica stroked the heart that beat against her cheek before pressing a kiss there, firm and deliberate. "So you love me then, is that it?"

Even in the dark, she recognized the serious cast to Coithia's expression as the empress lifted her chin with a finger. "Of course I love you, Clerica," she murmured, leaning down and kissing her sweetly. "I love _all_ my subjects."

In her sleepy state, it took a moment for Clerica to register the sarcasm. Coithia laughed at her indignant huff and peppered her cheeks with playful kisses before wrapping her again in her body. Planting a final, sincere kiss on the top of her head, and laughing once more - a contented hum from deep in her chest - she ushered Clerica back to sleep: "Of course I do."

The empress was ever good at telling white - and black - lies, but this, at least, Clerica believed. Even if only a piece of that heart was truly hers, it was given nonetheless. 

As she passed easily back into sleep however, the pulse beneath her head pumped erratically, and she briefly wondered about its other pieces - their relative size, who they were given to, and most importantly, how often they bled. 

She hoped it rare, but Clerica knew that she too had become a mummer's adept.

***

The bed was empty when Clerica woke just before dawn the next morning. In a moment, the panic of her dream the previous night came flooding back, only to be silenced by the sound of low voices outside the door. Taking a moment to settle herself, she climbed out of the bed slowly and donned heavy woolen pants and a tunic before making her way out of her quarters.

She was pleased to find the larger room well-lit and warm - numerous tallows flickered intermittently around the space (her only complaint that there might have been _too_ many), while the vent at the top of the tent had been thrown open to let out the smoke of the braziers that burned in the centre of the room. Of that she was also grateful - God would not save even a Roman emperor from a death by the poisonous fumes. Duranus himself had been raised to the purple in the wake of just such a death. 

She was relieved to find Coithia lounging on a divan, the light of several nearby candles catching in the muss of loose curls that cascaded over her shoulders and back. A fur cloak - Clerica's own - lay half-discarded next to her on the couch, one hand absently fingering the soft edges while the other delicately turned the pages of the small book that lay open in her lap. Clerica watched and admired her for a moment, looking serene and utterly naïve of the world around her. 

Approaching quietly, Clerica climbed onto the divan behind the Coithia, pulling the hair back from her neck to kiss her lightly before resting her chin on the empress's shoulder and slipping her arms comfortably around her waist. "Good morning," she murmured, peering down to see what she was reading. "'By no means am I able not to have the capacity for good. This capacity is inherent in me, whether or not I will it so, nor does nature at any time discriminate freely on this matter,'" she read aloud. "Who is that, then?"

Coithia nodded along as she finished reading the page herself. "A man called…" she shook her head as she closed the book on her finger to find the name of the author. "Pelagius."

"Your man Pelagius sounds like a controversial one," Clerica mused. "Where did you find that?"

"Lindon," she replied. When Clerica exhibited a blank expression, she continued. "He travels with Marius. In Rome he would be called a… a sorcerer, I suppose? A wise man, or prophet, of sorts. In Britannia he is called a _dryw_."

"Ah," Clerica drew back slightly and pointed at the small tome. "You will want to be careful with that."

Coithia's eyes flashed as she turned to regard her. "Why?" she demanded, knowing full-well what Clerica was talking about, but daring her to say so.

Clerica didn't take the bait. This was not the morning for a religious dispute with the empress, what with disputes of similar and varied nature with Rigantona so soon to follow. Cuddling again into Coithia's back, she pressed a light kiss below her ear. "Forgive me, _Augusta_ , for I know not what I do."

Coithia smiled, and returned to her book, Clerica reading over her shoulder. It was not that what she read had not intrigued her; as a philosophical exercise, Pelagius' text was of great interest and of great encouragement, in some ways, for a reader wishing to feel some sense of control in their own lives. But for the same reasons that his theories of free will were helpful, Clerica also saw in them the potential for danger. 

"Tell me," she asked when the first book had ended, "if we all have the capacity for free will, to _choose_ to be good or evil, what role can there be for an emperor of Rome? Who would follow such a man without the guarantee that he ruled with the will of God, that he ruled according to what he deemed correct? For every injury to the people, could they not rise up and declare that emperor unfit, for a man of God would not harm God's flock so?"

Coithia smiled again as she closed the book and set it aside. "I suppose that is true." She twisted in her seat to face Cleria fully, laying back against the arm of the divan. The robe she wore was gauzy and translucent, and hung open in a deep 'v' to her belly as she stretched. "But why would they continue to follow such a leader?" She hummed, twining their fingers together. "Well -"

She stopped and Clerica turned to find Dana standing quietly a few steps behind her, waiting patiently for her presence to be acknowledged. The bruise under her eye was violent and dark now, and though the room was quite warm, Clerica noted goose pimples had risen on the slave's arms, and her lips were swollen with cold. 

"Forgive me the interruption, _Augusta_ ," she said, inclining her head to the empress, "only, the _tribunus_ is requested at the wall immediately." She conveyed the message with far less urgency than the words perhaps demanded.

"Ah!" Coithia threw her arms up in mock despair and fell back against the couch again. "And here I was, about to defeat our _tribunus_ on the matter of free will!" She raised a quizzical eyebrow at Dana. "You are quite sure she is needed now?"

The slave nodded.

Coithia sighed and sat up. "Very well, then, I'll not keep you." She leaned forward to capture Clerica's lips with her own, and Clerica felt uncomfortably aware of Dana's attention shifting to her, a feeling that was only exaggerated as the empress murmured, "Don't be too long, lover," in her ear. 

She gave Coithia a brief look that she hoped conveyed a warning about boundaries, but Coithia waved her away, unconcerned, as if no one would take the word of a slave anyway. Thinking on it as she made her way back to her sleeping quarters to clothe herself more appropriately, Clerica reckoned that was true. It would have to be, in any case, especially if Coithia meant to stay in Britannia for any length of time. The diocese was a small one however, and far from the major centres on the continent. Any rumours surrounding their relationship here would slowly bleed out as they crossed the channel and arrive in Rome utterly spent (if they arrived at all). 

Even still, Clerica ever harkened to the secrecy of their conduct at the empress's court in Lugdunum, where eyes and ears sought out gossip with such vigor Clerica wondered if they believed their very lives would be snuffed out without its sustenance. Dana did not strike her as such a person, but she had ascertained beyond a doubt that she was far more clever than she presented herself. Cleverness, while at times useful, was often a dangerous trait for a slave to have, and Clerica had long since learned to be wary of such things.

As the slave helped - _tried_ to help - her fit on a leather cuirass, she attempted to steer her mind away from the notion that there were other reasons for her to be wary of the Briton. And yet, there were.

Though leading a life of servitude, there was an unabashed pride about Dana, a pride in her land, a pride in her people, and quite visibly, a pride in herself. While Clerica was familiar with many who held themselves in high regard, it was rare to come across this disposition in anyone of the servile class, unless they were either relatively new to their lot in life, or had secured a position in a major household. 

_Do I qualify as such, now?_ she wondered, fastening her heavy fur cloak and loosening her sword habitually. _Am I so high in rank now that it is an honour to serve me?_

She glanced at Dana and caught her staring, wide-eyed. The look froze there for only a moment before the green eyes narrowed back to the look of a respect that verged on begrudging, a defiant gleam emphasized by slightly raised eyebrows. _No,_ she thought. _No, perhaps not._

She rolled her eyes as she left the room and returned to Coithia, who was eagerly continuing her book, her back to Clerica, as before. Leaning down, she pressed her cheek to the empress's own. "Don't get _too_ many ideas while I'm gone," she murmured.

Coithia hummed in a distracted manner, or so it seemed - her mouth twisted in a wicked smile that indicated she had already concocted quite an array. Sighing in mock exasperation, Clerica nipped playfully at her ear and made her way out of the tent, Dana silent at her heel. 

That silence didn't last long. 

"You should not be so careless in your affections," the slave said, her manner matter-of-fact. "And nor should the _Augusta_."

Clerica laughed incredulously at the nerve. "And _you_ should not be so careless with your tongue, slave," she replied, lightly enough to hide the depth of her annoyance. "Lest I cut it out."

"You are quite willing to deal with the _Augusta_ 's tongue," the Briton fired back lazily, "and the tongue of Octavia Pallida, if I am not mistaken?" She offered Clerica a significant look. 

At the end of her patience, Clerica slammed Dana against a nearby supply wagon, the broad blade of her _pugio_ laid flat to her throat. "As I am certain you are aware, I am very fond of the _Augusta_ 's tongue. Pallida's I would happily do without, were it not essential to her rank." She brought the point of the blade to the slave's lips, tracing them. "A slave does not need a tongue. On the contrary, I know many Romans who prefer to keep them dumb."

The Briton's gaze hardened noticeably at that, and Clerica was suddenly uncomfortably conscious that the slave's height exceeded her own. Biting her lip, she took a step back, pointing the dagger. "Do not give me cause to warn you again. I may be shielding you from the wrath of Clautrus, but do not mistake my delight at his displeasure as kindness, however much it favours you."

Dana opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Clerica was walking away. It was too early to be killing Britons, and she had a feeling Coithia's tongue would be markedly sharper than desired had she elected to do so. 

They arrived at the _Porta Principalis Dextra_ a short while later, where they were met by the _optio centuriae_ of the legion's first cohort, Lyra Hibernica. Like Clerica, she was fair of hair, and even fairer of skin. Even after years of fighting together, Clerica had no idea how to pronounce the lieutenant's proper name, given to her by her Hibernian father.

" _Tribunus_ ," she greeted formally. She emphasized the title, her eyes flickering to Dana, an indication that perhaps the Hibernian felt the Briton's own respect for formality left much to be desired. Clerica hardly disagreed. 

" _Optio_ ," Clerica replied, in kind. "What is this about?"

"Clairseoir…" 

They looked up for the source of the voice to find Bri, the first cohort's guard captain, calling down uncertainly from one of the towers that stood on either side of the gate. A childhood friend of her cohort's _optio_ , Bri cut a striking figure even at night, her flaming red hair woven into complicated patterns that recalled the style of their homeland in the north of Hibernia. 

Lyra gestured to the tower with more than a little exasperation. "See for yourself."

Though she was clad in heavy winter garb, the Hibernian leapt nimbly up the ladder, Clerica following, albeit less quickly. Climbing onto the platform, she braced herself against the light, but chilly breeze and looked out onto the field below.

Before the gate was a small, torch-bearing contingent of approximately fifteen men. They were too far for Clerica to see their faces clearly, but she could hear them, jeering and cat-calling. 

She couldn't understand a word of what they were saying. "They are Britons?"

Bri shook her head. "No, they are from somewhere else. Picts, maybe." She turned to Lyra and the two shared a short, hurried exchange in their native tongue before continuing, "Yes, Picts. They come to our lands in the north, sometimes to trade, sometimes to fight."

"So they are with Alexandra Britorexa, then?"

Both Hibernians stared back at her with blank faces. 

"Rigantona?" she qualified.

Realization dawned, and Lyra laughed aloud. "Ah, Rigantona! Yes, they are a part of the coalition," she confirmed. "Who came up with that nickname, I wonder?"

Clercia leaned forward, peering down at the group below. "The Emperor…"

Lyra continued to laugh, haltingly, as she spoke again to Bri. Clerica understood enough of the words to know she was explaining the allusion to Alexander the Great. Bri chuckled too, at some unknown joke. 

Dana cleared her throat with more than a little disapproval, and approached on Clerica's right side. Indicating the boisterous visitors, she murmured quietly, "They ask to play 'What man is the porter?'"

Clerica shot her a confused glance. "What does that mean?"

The slave smiled broadly, a charming, confident grin. "It is a game. Would you like to play?"

The Hibernians were likewise stumped, and the three of them regarded the Briton with the familiarity they might show some grotesque creature crawling forth from the Styx. 

"It is simple," she explained. "They ask who guards the door, and we give a name. It need not be our true name, but a name that would make sense only to those who know who we are."

"A metaphor..?" Clerica asked.

The word seemed not to make sense to Dana, and she shook her head, not understanding. "A riddle," she said. "A riddle, and then you ask who has come knocking, and the visitor answers in kind."

"What's the point of all that?"

"Well, as the game goes on, you come to learn more about the guest as they learn about you, always telling riddles of your feats in life, be they great in truth, or just twisted this way through use of words. And at the end you can then decide whether you wish to admit the visitor, and the visitor can decide whether he actually wishes to visit you after all." 

She explained the game as if this were the most obvious way to greet a hoard of drunk, dirty men at the door, and Clerica found herself seriously questioning the slave's judgement, having previously thought her too intelligent for her own good. 

"Well, I am not going to let them in, regardless of how cunning they are with words. So no, thank you, I'll not play." Turning back to the Hibernians, she continued firmly, "If they wish to continue carrying on, they are more than welcome to do so outside the gates. But if they cross the perimeter into the _vallum_ ," she indicated, "Lyra, you have -"

There was a shout from behind, and Clerica was suddenly shoved through the two soldiers, the three of them crashing together into the planks guarding the sides of the platform. A separate _thud_ of dead weight shook the tower slightly, and she whirled around from her place on the floor to see Dana clutching at her side, her thin red tunic quickly absorbing the black. On the ground beside her lay a massive spear, seemingly proud at having hit any target, intended or not. 

The pang of concern she felt for the slave was short-lived, however, interrupted by the sound of heavy, cantering hooves, and cheers from below. The horse - was it just one? - trumpeted before the gate, and from here, she could hear the great beast pawing at the ground as if anticipating a charge, restless for blood and battle. 

" _PORTER!_ " The bellow shivered through her body, raking down her spine. 

" _WHAT MAN IS THE PORTER?!_ "

Before Clerica herself had time to respond, Dana had risen furiously from the floor, the massive spear clutched in one hand, the wound it bore her in the other. Clerica followed the slave and found herself looking down upon a monster of a man sitting astride the largest horse she had ever seen. 

His skin was ugly in its pall, and covered all over with dark writings and patterns, as if he were a corpse brought back by means of necromantic spells. The beast he rode was a black thing, its hooves surely the size of platters in the wealthiest Roman households. Steam rose from the creature and its ghostly rider, and it seemed to Clerica that this man and his horse were truly demons of the Underworld.

She had no more time to ruminate on that however, as Dana began to _roar_ at the unknown man in her own tongue, an answer seething rage:

" _Clad na gaem fy arwain i dilyn,_  
_Cró na taisi amddiffyn,_  
_Na caer pedryfan, timuil borgallen,_  
_Oni fy kadau i ben!_ "

The men below cheered, and Dana pointed the spear at the giant on the horse. "Fy ti borgallen," she spat. "Fy ti melltithio. Ti kadau i ben, ceifn!"

Unable to understand what was being said, Clerica could only watch the furious exchange, could only stand by as Dana launched the spear at the man as if she were some magnificent spectre of Alexander and he, Darius. As with the latter fateful encounter, the spear missed its intended target, plunging instead deep into the chest of the man's enormous horse. The creature screamed, and if the soldiers of the legion - indeed, _all_ the legions - were not yet awake in their tents, they were surely startled back to life, their blood cold and curdling. 

"Bri!" Clerica called to the guard captain as Dana sagged against her, loss of blood firmly taking its toll. "Signal a pass! I want all of them in chains now!"

" _No_!" The slave pounded weakly on her chest, and Clerica was astonished to find a fading, but broad, smile on her lips. "Let them go. Let them go back to their walls… He will be weakened for having run… This… this will make it easier."

Clerica held up a hand to Bri, holding her previous order. "Make _what_ easier?"

Dana swallowed thickly, the smile on her lips now barely a ghost. "Your treaties with _rixa_."

"Why? Who the fuck is he?" She glanced out to the field. If the scouts were going to catch them, she would need to signal the pass soon, or they would assuredly lose them. 

The Briton's eyes were now closed, but the smile returned a little stronger at the question, as if she were trying desperately to resurrect that dazzling grin from earlier. "Drust." She let out a husky chuckle and added, "King of Alclud."

"O cacc…" Bri whistled, wide-eyed, as Dana finally lost consciousness. Lyra seemed in agreement, apparently dumbfounded by what had transpired. 

Below them inside the camp, a small but growing crowd had formed, soldiers and slaves milling about at the base of the tower looking equal parts confused and unnerved. Bellamy had made his way to the front of the audience, and called up to her. 

"Oi! What the fuck is going on up there?"

Clerica waved him away and considered Dana's wound. She was bleeding far too heavily for the damage to be completely superficial. She turned to the two Hibernians. "You will bring her immediately to the _medicus_ and see that she receives preliminary treatments. You will inform the _medicus_ that after her wound has been cleaned and bandaged, she is to be returned to my quarters, where you will both accompany her. You will speak to no one about what has happened here, and no one is to speak to her about what has happened here, unless it is to ascertain the extent of her injuries, if necessary. Do I make myself clear?"

Both glanced at each other uncertainly before nodding in unison. "Yes, _tribunus_."

"Good. I will be prepared to meet you upon your arrival."

The two Hibernians exchanged another uncomfortable look, and Clerica's patience felt on the verge of breaking. 

"By Christ's holy balls, what is it?!"

Biting her lip, Lyra leaned forward and explained in an undertone. "We just thought that you might want to know…" she inclined her head to Dana, "she called him 'ceifn,' so… they are kin."

Nodding vigorously, Bri also bent close. "It seems to us as well that - with this relation, and," she gestured vaguely, "well, what she said - it seems to us that she is Tuatha Dé."

Clerica blinked, expecting there to be some elaboration on this point, but the Hibernians just stared, as if they expected everything they had just said made complete sense. 

"Right. Well, at the moment I don't care if she's a 'toota jay,' I care that you do as I say." Her tone was firm, and the Hibernians took a step back and assumed formal stances. "Well? Go!"

As quickly as they might, the two women picked up the slave's seemingly lifeless body and began to ferry her down the ladder to the ground below. Clerica watched them go for a time, the delicacy with which Dana was handled a curious shift (though not unwarranted) from the earlier hints of animosity. Truth be told, she could no more fault the Hibernians for resting on first impressions than she could their decision to reconsider. Turning again to the field as Bri touched down on the ground, she gazed at the steaming corpse of the Beast of Alclud, the spear still engorged in its chest up to half of its length. It had been a throw of such strength from a woman fighting for consciousness - indeed, Clerica was certain that even she, a trained soldier of the Roman Empire, could not hope to imitate the strike, even in a healthy state. 

The initial shock and awe of the encounter, however, gave way to a host of new questions, curiosities, and, potential problems. Serious problems. 

What was beyond any doubt was that Dana possessed a skill set that was far more complicated, and valuable, even, than a slave ought to. The viciousness and precision of her volley was gladiatorial, while her speech, even that which Clerica could not understand, was capable of such range that she surely spoke publicly, and often, in a previous life. The Hibernians' indication that she was related to the king of Alclud only further entrenched Clerica's realization that the woman she called 'slave' had not always been called such, and had perhaps only known that name quite recently. 

A part of her was curious. 

Another was cautious. 

Just _how_ recent was Dana's fall from king's kin to the servile class? Who had sold her to Rome, and why? Where were her true loyalties now, having been apparently betrayed by her own people and enslaved by another? Clerica could think of no reason why the Briton would have any love for Rome (and certainly, her ambivalence had been clearly communicated), but that did not necessarily mean that she opposed Rome in every sense. Was there some part of her that sought the destruction of certain individuals, a goal that was joined with the Roman cause in the north?

A more troubling thought was that perhaps Dana was not truly a slave at all. Perhaps Dana was a spy of sorts, easily overlooked in her role as a woman who was never meant to be seen, nor heard, but only meant to _do_. If that was the case, she had failed in rather spectacular fashion on that front, even before this display. Clerica had never been cursed with a slave so brashly entitled despite a nagging lack of competence. So no, perhaps not a spy. Or at least, not a particularly good one. 

She was startled out of her thoughts by gentle shove to her shoulder as Bellamy settled in beside her, leaning against the ledge. 

"So what was that about?" he asked. 

"Honestly?" She shrugged as she caught his eye. "I have no fucking idea."

Bellamy nodded curtly. "Good."

"Yeah," she muttered, as the sun crept over the fells, "perfect."

" _Tribunus_?"

They both swiveled toward the new voice to find Coithia standing with them on the platform, her feet bare, still clad in her thin shift and, Clerica was displeased to note, little else. The train of pale, diaphanous fabric was quickly soaking up the blood on the floor. She seemed either not to notice, or not to mind.

"We need to talk," the empress said, all charm replaced by a steely seriousness that very much befitted her hard-won title, regardless of her current garb. "We need to talk, _now_."

***

"Claustrus will try to ensure that this colours our negotiations with the Coalition," Coithia said once Clerica had explained what had happened, leaving out the finer details of Dana's supposed heritage. She could not elaborate on that without Lyra and Bri present, any way. "You must not let him."

Before Clerica could respond, Bellamy - who had followed them into the _praetorium_ , much to the empress's ire - interrupted. 

"Why not?" he asked. "Why shouldn't we? One of the kings supposedly subject to Lexa Britorexa just tried to kill the _Dux Britanniarum_. That _should_ colour negotiations."

" _Rigantona_ requested to treat with us, and it is with Rigantona that we will come to terms, not with this Drust of Al Clud," Coithia stressed, eyes narrowed. She turned to address Clerica, but the harshness of her tone suggested Bellamy was also her intended audience. "This was not the act of a powerful man. Powerful men lead their people valiantly into battle, as Rigantona does. This is why Rigantona was elected _rixa_ \- because she is powerful and wise. 

"Drust, on the other hand, arrived at our door with a handful of men from a kingdom that is not even his own. That _should_ tell you something about the security of his position in Alt Clud, or at the very least, the lack of support for what he intended to accomplish this morning. This is the behaviour of a king not long for his throne, and you should view it as such."

Bellamy was not willing to drop the subject. "By that logic, what he did was desperate, and I'm not disputing that. But he should be punished for it. Clerica - and Rome - cannot be seen to be weak by accepting such assaults against them. Trying to accommodate the Britons' desire for peace is already a step too far in that direction; we shouldn't give them any further reason to believe we are vulnerable - "

Clerica interrupted. "Bellamy, that's enough -"

" _No_ , Clerica, it's _not_!" Bellamy turned to her insistently, a finger pointed at Coithia, whose face would have been remarkably composed had her eyes not been a blazing blue fury. " _She_ wants you and Rome to ignore this as the slight of some rebel warlord, but what if it's not? What if Lexa sent him here to kill you, and all this talk of 'terms' is just a ruse to eliminate not just you, but the Emperor as well from close quarters? _She_ ," he jabbed his finger at the empress, "is trying to get you to do something that will destroy the credibility of the Empire's threats of military force!"

Glaring at Bellamy, Clerica clenched her jaw as she turned to Coithia, a sick feeling in her stomach that she might have to beg the empress to spare the life of her second-in-command. 

But Coithia's back was turned to them, her attention seemingly focused instead on the book she had been reading earlier as she fingered along the edges of its leather binding. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "Tell me, _praefectus_ ," she asked quietly, "why are you here?"

Bellamy glanced uncertainly at Clerica, not understanding the question. "Here, _Augusta_?"

"Yes, here. On this island, in this diocese. Why have you come to Britannia?" The question was exceedingly tentative in light of the conversation's current tone. Clerica knew very well the direction this might be going, and shot Bellamy a warning look. 

"To put down the uprising. We are here to protect the Empire."

Coithia turned to face them, a faint smile on her lips. Clerica wasn't sure Bellamy could tell how superficial that smile was - most people couldn't. "And why do you protect the Empire?"

"I swore an oath," Bellamy said, no hint of hesitation. "I swore an oath to faithfully serve Rome, to never desert this service, to never seek to avoid death for the Empire. I swore to obey the Emperor in all commands."

"Aha!" Coithia raised a finger to him, as if he had stumbled upon some important revelation. "And let me ask you, do you know why _I_ am here?"

Bellamy looked as if he thought the empress had developed some kind of condition that was interfering with her processes of thought. After a few beats awaiting an answer, Coithia continued. " _I_ am here because Britannia is _my_ diocese. I am here because Rome is _my_ empire. I am here because what is done _here_ is decided by me and by _my_ husband." 

She emphasized her words as she took steps towards the Gaul, her voice dropping lower and lower. "You are not here to put down the uprising, _praefectus_ , and you are not here to protect the Empire. You are here because my husband and I have _ordered_ you to be here." 

Her voice was dangerously low now, barely a whisper, and Clerica watched as Bellamy seemed to shrink visibly, the empress's eyes boring into his own. " _Never_ presume to tell me how best to rule, _praefectus_. You chose your path, and obedience suits you - it has made you a very successful man. But allow me to be absolutely clear when I say that _my_ lot in life is not to obey, but to _command_. Do _not_ make the mistake of thinking me some mere woman, here at the whim of a greater man. I am not a woman. I am _Rome_ , and by God, if you _dare_ to challenge my authority again, you will find that my threats _never_ lack credibility."

It was a sound enough warning, Clerica thought, and though she held the Gaul quite dear, and even shared some of his doubts about Rigantona's ultimate plans, his comments toward Coithia were far out of line. Bellamy, though he was strong of will and opinion, was not a leader of men. A delegator, to be sure, but not a true leader. He had ever found greatest comfort in being a soldier, where he could be guided in directing his passion and violence by Clerica and others. This was a strength, and it was precisely why their partnership had worked so well. But even Bellamy had his weaknesses, and his over-zealousness for the cause would sometimes become the greatest of them when it prevented flexibility. Clerica and he had clashed numerous times in the past when previously set plans were changed; Bellamy was not a fan of compromise, and he rarely failed to demonstrate just that. In contrast to Clerica however, Coithia was utterly disinterested in accommodating these failings, and, it had to be said, quite competent in parrying them. 

"Yes, _Augusta_ ," Bellamy murmured. 

"Good." The empress smiled brightly, and then looked past Bellamy to the door. "Thank you for joining us."

Turning, Clerica found Marius, Octavia and the _dryw_ , Lindon, standing there, having apparently been present the entire time. Octavia wore an expression that hovered somewhere between pity and righteous delight at her brother's treatment by the empress, of whom Clerica sensed the Sarmatian was becoming increasingly fond. Lindon, on the other hand, looked decidedly uncomfortable. Marius watched the encounter curiously, no surprise evident on his face. 

Coithia squared herself towards them. "Marius, Lindon, I have asked you here in the hopes that you might grant me a favour - and a large one, at that."

Marius nodded

The _dryw_ didn't smile, though his face was soft, and his voice, softer. "What would you have me do, Coithia Augusta?" 

Clerica glared at his use of the empress's name, but Coithia herself seemed to have no complaint. Perhaps in Britannia, these _dryw_ were of greater importance that Clerica thought. Certainly, that Coithia would be on apparently such good terms with this one would indicate such a thing. 

"I need you to act as envoys to the _rixa_ ," she explained, without hesitation. "What has happened here this morning," she glanced at Clerica, "is an act of war, during a time when we are meant to be settling peace. I would ask that you send Rigantona my regards and demand that she meet with the _Dux Britanniarum_ on the eastern mound, there - " she indicated, "- to establish terms."

Clerica took a step towards the empress, her voice insistent. " _Augusta_ , I really must protest. This is not my place. I am newly arrived here, and I have yet to even be afforded the title of _dux_. More to the point, it is the Emperor who is here to set terms, not me, _dux_ or no."

" _Tribunus_ , you may not yet be _dux_ , but it is fully decided that you will be," Coithia replied. "It is of absolute importance to me, and to the Emperor, that Rigantona sees you in this role with our complete confidence. It is you who will be acting in our place in the north once we have returned to the continent, and she - and indeed, all of her fellows - must become used to dealing with you on our behalf, as should you."

This was not at all something that Clerica was comfortable with, and Coithia noted that, for she offered her a small, private smile, no more than a quirk of her lips to the side turned away from the others. She held Clerica's gaze for no more than a moment before directing her attention to Marius, who had cleared his throat. 

" _Augusta_ , it is neither my place to question your judgement in this matter, but forgive me my asking: Why is the Emperor not relaying this desire to Morta himself? And Claustrus, surely he would think his own presence to be pivotal as well?"

Coithia cocked an eyebrow sardonically. "I don't doubt that Claustrus _would_ think his presence pivotal, and nor would I disagree with him. But where peace is what we aim to achieve with these terms, the Emperor and I have agreed that Claustrus would prove impactful in ways contrary to our cause, while Clerica is both the correct officer for this role, and the correct mind." Coithia took a breath and continued gravely. "As far as the Emperor, he has taken quite ill, as you are all familiar. We decided in the night that it would not be wise for him, in his weakened state, to act as our negotiator in this matter, for fear of presenting a face that would seem… impermanent."

"Understood." Marius nodded curtly. "And I agree. Morta will make a worthy representative for peace. Not the one Rigantona was expecting perhaps, but one that I anticipate she will come to respect."

"Good, and Lindon? Will you do this thing for me, my friend?" Coithia turned her gaze on the _dryw_ , more serious than was her habit in charm, but no less successful for the fact. 

Lindon's mouth twitched at that, the corners turning up ever so slightly. "Of course." 

"Gratitude," Coithia murmured, and she seemed genuinely sincere - and somehow relieved. 

Clerica wondered at that, and looked to the _dryw_ curiously. Extraordinarily tall, but exceedingly gentle as far as she could tell, Lindon should have been an imposing figure. Surely, to any who didn't know his nature, that was exactly how he came across. And yet Coithia spoke to him as though this man had much to fear from this mission, more so than Marius even, who was smaller in build and a Roman, besides. Glance flickering to Octavia, she noted that the Sarmatian's face had also adopted a look of concern. 

Clerica determined to better understand the mysterious man when he returned. Or, _if_ he returned, judging by the excessive danger he was about to be placed in. 

Coithia clapped her hands. "Very well! Lindon, Marius, I would have you make haste on this task, that we get negotiations quickly underway. Octavia, ride out with the _speculatores_ and have them sweep the perimeter of the _castra_ , though be wary. If you stumble upon intruders, you are not to kill them unless absolutely necessary; they will be taken as prisoners if this can be managed." 

With that, Octavia nodded and exited the tent with Lindon and Marius. Coithia turned to Bellamy. " _Praefectus_ , we have suffered an attack on this _castrum_ this morning, and while I do not expect others to be forthcoming, it would be foolish not to prepare for such an event." Bellamy looked relieved, the empress apparently addressing at least one of his overriding concerns. "Double the watch at every gate, and communicate to your fellows in the other _castra_ that they are to do the same. And again, prisoners are to be taken if at all possible." 

"Yes, _Augusta_." Bellamy nodded, his mood notably lighter, and quickly followed the others from the tent. 

As he left, Coithia made her way over to Clerica, slipping a hand into her own, and pulling her close. "Now, my love," she murmured, kissing her lightly on the lips, "would you care to tell me what the fuck is _actually_ going on?"


End file.
